


Sedatephobia

by rhythmicroman



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: 2nd Person, Alternate Universe - Human, Child Neglect, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Gen, Magical Human AU, NO FONTCEST, POV Second Person, Peer Pressure, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader Is Papyrus, Sort of? - Freeform, Tags will be added, You Are Papyrus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:47:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7158083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmicroman/pseuds/rhythmicroman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world outside won’t let you be you. But Sans won’t let you grow up.</p><p>-</p><p>You feel numb. You want to cry.<br/>Nobody's talking. Everyone's staring.<br/>Your already-blurry vision gets blurrier with tears, and all of a sudden you're bawling, and nobody cares.<br/>But you can feel his rage from his place in the corner, and you can feel his eyes on you as you crawl away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sedatephobia

**Author's Note:**

> The way they speak is based on how children where I live speak. =)
> 
> Sans will probably have a pottymouth later, you're warned now~
> 
> Sans' real name is Serif, but he hates it. Papyrus' is Payton.
> 
> Gaster's name is 'William Derrick Gaster' for reasons.
> 
> Gaster is a dick because I need to practice dick-Gaster. My Gaster is too nice for this.

You count your fingers and your toes. You count the bruises on your knees. You count the scrapes on your elbows, and you count the bites down your arms.

Your brother raises an eyebrow, as he watches you lean and mumble and stretch, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s used to it by now. You give him a toothy grin and he returns it, sticking his tongue through the gap where his front teeth should be.

Then you tell him it’s his turn, and he rolls up his sleeves and shorts and stands up straight, with his arms spread. He has much less than you. Well, he has the same fingers, and the same toes, but his arms are completely biteless and scratchless, and his knees are the same smooth yellow-white that they’ve always been. You scrunch up your nose and pout at him. He pouts back.

“Serif.” your father interrupts, and your brother spins on his heel, blue eyes half-lidded. “Payton needs to grow up. Stop babying him.”

Serif clicks his tongue. “He’s six.” is his only response. He hugs himself instead of returning his hands to his pockets. You can tell that he’s shaking, even though He’s tensed every muscle to stop it.

“Six is old enough. Stop.”

He turns back to you, and rolls his eyes, cheekily sticking up his middle finger and waving it at your father’s turned back. You giggle and he stuffs his hand in his pocket, whistling nonchalantly as your dad glares daggers at his spine.

Serif is your older brother, by three years. Sometimes he is Serry, your energetic prankster of a brother - sometimes he’s Sans, your lazy, pun-loving brother. It always depends on the day.

Today he was Serry - though he hated that name with a passion. “Serif sounds like an old-ass sailor’s boat,” he whined. “And ‘serry’ sounds like a ripoff fruit. It’s Sans, right?”

“Sans means wivout,” you tell him quietly. “But you ain’t wivout nothin’.”

He’s the only person who lets you act like a little kid. Around everyone else you have to be Payton, the smart-spoken, mature child - but around Sans, you’re Papyrus, the loud and energetic spitfire. He doesn’t mind when you mispronounce your words - he does the same. It’s where you were raised.

“I’m wivout a good dad, eh, kid?” he snorts cruelly. You shouldn’t laugh, but you do anyway. “Wish I ‘ad a better one, really do.”

“Shush, Sans. Or dad’ll hear.”

“Oh, yea, let’s shut up. Don’ want the demon findin’ us, eh, Paps?”

“I’m not jokin’!”

“Neiver was I!”

You cover your mouth and stifle your laugh as Sans pulls the covers over your heads and snores loudly, mumbling in a sleepy voice about cupcakes and goats, shooting you a wink. You hear your dad open your door, silently wait, and slowly close it. His footsteps go down the stairs.

“Wow, the twat felt like creepin’ on us!”

“Sans! Don’ call dad a twat!”

“But it’s true!”

“I s’ppose so…” You try and hide your smile.

That’s what happens - all night, every night. You hide under the duvet and hide your face in Sans’ chest, and then when your dad leaves you talk and laugh, like he hates you to.

The world outside won’t let you be you. But Sans won’t let you grow up.


End file.
